


forever, watching love grow

by vervains



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: 90s, Character Study, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, Smoking, Summer motifs, Very Minor Character Death, early 2000s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25839709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vervains/pseuds/vervains
Summary: moving forward or looking back, every step jaemin takes leads him back to jeno.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 96





	forever, watching love grow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr_loverman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_loverman/gifts).



> i tried to make my description of 90's/early 00's seoul as accurate as i could but please do point out any mistakes! based on [this movie](https://asianwiki.com/Tune_in_for_Love)
> 
> a big thanks to my lovely [beta](/users/980517/) for ensuring this fic sees the light of day!

**[ 2001 ]**

Autumn arrives with a drop in temperature and the familiar sights of Jaemin’s childhood. He’s back on the hilly streets of  _ Jegi-dong _ , petting the same cat that lounges outside the steps of their bakery, fat from all the food it scrounges from their neighbours. Their crooked sign has been righted, and few customers mill about inside, grabbing their order from Taeyong, who smiles at them beatifically. Jaemin recognizes the smells, the smear of flour on Taeyong’s cheek that the girls giggle at, but the display cases are shiny, and their tinny old radio is gone, replaced by something sleeker.

It feels like home and not at the same time, like most things in Jaemin’s life lately.

He can tell Taeyong wants to come to him when they lock eyes, but he tends to the girls first, too nice to ever let impatience seep into his voice. Jaemin supposes sales have been better despite the bakery not operating every day like it used to, judging from the way one of the girls nudges the other as they leave, their whispers conspiratorial. The sense of deja-vu that hits him is not nearly as gentle as the hug Taeyong wraps him in, smelling like sugar and red bean paste.

Taeyong doesn’t question the suitcase that he carries with him, but Jaemin feels like there’s no point in pretending. He’s too used to the mask he’s worn through the years, and in a way, it’s relieving to let the exhaustion show, which he thinks he can almost see mirrored back at him in the tea Taeyong warms up for them. It’s the same bone-deep weariness he used to see sometimes in Jeno’s face, the kind he could never understand until now.

“Can I stay?” he asks, holding the cup in both hands and letting his fingers trace the delicate flower pattern that dances around it.

Taeyong smiles, and it’s the same one that his mother used to wear. Patient, never one to prod at him in case he withdrew into his shell. And Jaemin feels ashamed for not coming back here as much to see the person who played both the role of parent and sibling.

“For as long as you want.”

**[ 1994 ]**

The bakery has good days in the summer. Gap-toothed kids wander inside, wearing the thinnest clothes they own and clutching  _ melona _ bars that melt in their chubby hands. Jaemin takes their sticky change, serving them  _ hotteok  _ fresh from Taeyong’s kitchen in the back, reserving a soft smile for the ones he’s especially fond of. If they’re lucky enough, a posse of high schoolers would come in, jostling shoulders and cracking jokes, buying way too many pastries than they can eat in true teenage spirit.

Jaemin sometimes catches them giving him curious glances; he goes to the same school, but his life begins and ends with the bakery, kneading the dough with Taeyong in the morning and doing his homework under the lamplight at night. He feeds the stray cat that lingers around in hopes of scraps, helps the next-door  _ ahjumma  _ with her groceries, all with the same grace he’s learned from his mother and later, Taeyong. But Jaemin likes to think some part of him is free from all this. It exists separate from this place, from its broken heater and the perpetual scent of something sweet.

The part of him that aches for more.

He expects it to come in the form of his high-school graduation, getting into university or landing a job at a company deeper in the maze of Seoul’s newly forming high-rises. But it doesn’t arrive in the form of a grand revelation, or a calling that isn’t following in his family’s footsteps. It arrives in the form of a boy who Jaemin can’t seem to shake loose, one that changes what his home means to him in more ways than one.

He comes right in the middle of summer, on a morning where Jaemin’s tank top sticks to his body like a second skin, even though he’s cranked the tiny fan to the highest setting and it shouldn’t be this hot, not this early. He isn’t expecting any customers, and almost misses the boy when he walks in. Except for the fact that he’s wearing a hoodie in weather where Jaemin can’t stand anything with more fabric than a t-shirt and looking completely unbothered by it.

He looks as if he threw it on in a hurry, though his actions speak of anything but. Jaemin would become used to the languid movements later, but he cannot help but feel as if it’s out of place when most people his age moved as if they never had enough time. It makes him keep his eyes trained on him while the boy examines the display case that’s only half-stocked, with Taeyong still doing prep in the back. 

When he speaks, his voice is deeper than Jaemin expects but still sweet. It reminds Jaemin of the  _ yakgwa _ Taeyong would make on festival days, warm and honeyed.

“Are you still taking on part-timers?”

Jaemin blinks. He’d almost forgotten about the crude advertisement they’d written, plastered to the front of the store window. They needed part-timers since Jaemin’s getting too busy with high school but so far, no one has bothered to apply. Everyone knows that they can’t pay as much as the convenience store down the street, or what people in the heart of _Dongdaemun_ parted with in return for running their errands.

“Yeah, yeah we are,” Jaemin frowns, “but aren’t you in school?”

The boy brushes his hair out of his eyes, his bangs too long to be practical, unlike Jaemin’s parted hair which he has to force into behaving every morning before school.

“I don’t go,” he answers simply.

Jaemin thinks he hears the sizzle of Taeyong deep-frying dough in the back, and the sound makes him realize how quiet it is otherwise. Even the fridge doesn’t whir as loud as it normally does.

“Okay,” he settles for saying, “I’ll talk to my brother about it.”

He expects that to be the end of it, that the boy will leave and forget all about it so that he won’t have to talk it over with Taeyong. But he just pays for some  _ kkwabaegi _ , sits at a corner table, and waits. Jaemin shouldn’t be fazed by him being a dropout but something about it sparks his curiosity. He doesn’t realize the significance of the moment then, the way he lets himself be drawn in, prompting the domino effect that would become their relationship. 

The boy’s smile when Taeyong serves him the doughnuts dusted with cinnamon sugar is disarming. The sharpness of his features dissolve, his cheeks becoming prominent. Jaemin knows that Taeyong won’t be able to resist, not with the way he digs into the food and licks the sugar off his fingers too. When he answers Taeyong’s questions, he’s neither vague nor forthcoming, talking about himself in the same disconnected way that Jaemin feels about the things that tie him down. This bakery, their school, the whole town.

That’s what makes him agree when Taeyong asks him if he’s okay with it. Or he tells himself that’s it, and not the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles or how his name, Jeno, matches the lilt of his voice. Whatever it is, it makes Jaemin leave the counter, swiping a doughnut that he’ll probably have to pay for later, offering Jeno a smile. It’s the one he aims at girls in school when he needs to borrow notes or wears whenever he wins a contest, his teeth flashing brighter than the camera. 

“I’ll show you the ropes then,” he offers because he doesn’t need to ask to know that Jeno is free.

“Sure,” Jeno says, a hit of amusement in his voice.

  
Jaemin shows him around all one hundred and fifty square feet of their livelihood, teaching him how to navigate the cramped kitchen without getting burned by something and exactly where to smack the cash register in case it jams, which is often. They’re all simple things but Jaemin feels an inflated sense of self-importance explaining them to him. And Jeno’s good about it, smiling and nodding and letting Jaemin believe he’s being charming when he’s the one staring longer than he needs to.

It’s funny because Jaemin thought he was above petty crushes, above most things that would create an attachment to this place, but the armour of childhood innocence he wears doesn’t let him, not really. It has him soaking up Jeno’s pretty smile and the way he seems to hang onto his every word. He lets it fill him up like a flimsy paper lantern about to be sent out over the waters on a festival day.

It would only be so long until he floats away.

**[ 1994 ]**

Jeno feels more like a handyman than a part-timer. Jaemin comes home from school to see him lugging boxes to and from the kitchen, changing that one lightbulb that keeps going out every few months or fixing an uneven table edge. When Jaemin asks him about it, his only answer is that his dad is a mechanic, so he caught up on things early on. And Jaemin doesn’t think much of it, because he grew up having to help his family around the house, but he does wonder when he sees the wistful look in Jeno’s eyes sometimes.

  
He would ask about it, but he feels as if it’s become an unspoken rule between the three of them that they don’t pry into each other’s business. Jeno never asks why Taeyong and Jaemin have different surnames, so he doesn’t think it’s his place to ask why he never talks about his family. But on days where they have little to no customers and Jeno sits on the stool by the door, his face angled up to meet the sunshine, Jaemin wishes he could. He wishes a lot of things.

  
  


It’s not as if they don’t talk. They huddle over the ancient radio, groaning as the tinny voice announces that South Korea’s match against Spain has ended in a draw in the ‘94 World Cup. They deal with the annoying customers that Taeyong’s too polite to throw out. One time, they caught some bastard in the neighbourhood trying to throw stones at  _ their  _ cat so he and Jeno ended up chasing him for fifteen minutes. But Jaemin feels as if there’s something, on those days where they go shopping and Jeno looks for people who he can’t find, or when he asks to stay the night at the bakery.

  
  


Jaemin’s never been too good at keeping things inside, so eventually, he breaks. But he does it because he cares, he tells himself.

  
  


“What track were you in? Back in school?”

  
  


It’s a slow day, and their cat lies at Jeno’s feet while his long, thin fingers stroke its grey fur. Jeno’s fingers still and it stretches, padding out the door.

  
  


“Vocational,” Jeno mumbles, and maybe in an attempt to distract him, “what about you?”

  
  


“Social studies,” Jaemin responds, and he wants to talk about his plans, but that’s not the purpose of this conversation. “Vocational, huh? Explains why you’re so good with your hands. Your parents okay with that?”

  
  


Jeno gets to his feet, and Jaemin thinks of the way the cat had walked out on him. He looks out in the streets, and his adam’s apple bobs nervously in his throat.

  
  


“You okay?” Jaemin presses, frowning.

  
  


“Yeah. Yeah, um, look — people are coming this way,” he says, grabbing a broom and pretending to sweep the floor, although it’s as clean as it gets. Jaemin gets the feeling he wants to blend into the background when their customers enter, a group of kids their age who look a little worse for wear, their shirts untucked and collars askew. They’re loud and stick close to each other, and Jaemin can’t help but think of a united front. He schools his expression into something friendly, but it’s not him they’re interested in.

  
  


“So this is where you were!” one of them claps Jeno on the back, hard, his smile a tad ferocious at the corners. Jeno stiffens, and the broom slips out of his hands.

  
  


“Hyuck,” he grounds out, “can we talk later?”

  
  


Jaemin’s never seen that expression on his face, the one where it looks as if he’s drowning. No, sinking. Resigned to it. It makes his hands curl into fists at his sides.

  
  


“Why?” the boy he called Hyuck grins wider. “We’re paying customers, so it’s not a problem.”

  
  


At his word, one of them breaks out from the group, taller but a little less sure of himself than Hyuck. Jaemin reluctantly takes his order, a helping of  _ hotteok  _ to go. He’s aware of the rising voices, the way they all crowd around Jeno until he drops onto a chair, and he wants to kick them out, but he can’t, not without reason to. He hears snippets of their conversation, of Jeno refusing something he can’t make out, and the way they loom over him reminds Jaemin of playground bullies. The noise they’re making has Taeyong emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands down his apron front, unable to hide the concern on his face.

  
  


“What’s going on?” he asks Jaemin, who just shakes his head, staring at the group as if he can make Jeno look his way to reassure him that he’s not about to do what Jaemin suspects. He doesn’t.

  
  


“They ordered,” Jaemin says to Taeyong, who lets out a resigned sigh and starts shoving the food into a wrinkled paper bag.    
  
  
“Here,” he thrusts the bag into the arms of the kid that ordered, who fumbles to take it. “And take whatever this is outside, please.”

  
  


Some of them laugh at that, and Jaemin gets it because, at first glance, Taeyong isn’t intimidating, not with his delicate features and soft voice. But years of fending for himself haven’t left him untouched and the edge in his voice is real when he repeats himself, stepping out from behind the counter. It’s a reminder of what he used to be before he met Jaemin and his mom.

  
  


“Now.”

  
  


“Hell of a place you’ve found yourself, Jeno,” Hyuck mutters, the smirk still not leaving his face. But when Taeyong glares at him, he herds the rest of the boys outside, sparing Jeno a glance over his shoulder. To Jaemin’s annoyance, they linger at the front of the bakery, kicking over whatever they can find and laughing at nothing in particular. Before Jaemin can ream into Jeno for his choice of friends, he speaks.

  
  


“I’m sorry about that,” his words slip out in a hurry, and it’s the first time Jaemin has seen him ruffled. His eyes keep drifting to the boys, his attention split between two groups. “I didn’t think they’d come here.”

  
  


Jaemin wants so badly to get angry but he can’t, not with Jeno looking that worried.

  
  


“Are you in trouble?”

  
  


Jeno shakes his head.

  
  


“Are they making you do something you don’t want to?” Taeyong tries again.

  
  


Another shade of the head, this time more vigorous. “They’re not bad kids, I swear. It’s just—,”

  
  


“They’re waiting for you,” Jaemin concludes. Jeno’s soft sigh confirms his suspicions. He avoids Jaemin’s stare and turns his attention on Taeyong.

  
  


“Could I... get this month’s pay in advance?” 

  
  


Taeyong and Jaemin share a look. Jaemin’s used to curbing Taeyong’s martyr tendencies by being the more sensible one, but he can’t bring himself to tell him no this time. Taeyong understands without asking him to and ducks behind the counter once more, the noise of cash register now abrasive instead of comforting.

  
  


“You don’t have to go with them,” Jaemin whispers harshly. “You can just stay here, we’ll—,”

  
  


Jeno finally looks at him, and the tiny smile on his face makes Jaemin’s words die in his throat. It’s that same look from before. Sinking, not even fighting the tide but this time, softer. He gets the feeling that he’s used to this and it makes him angry.

  
  


Taeyong has the money in his hands, so Jeno keeps his voice low when he speaks.

  
  


“I think this town has stuck to me. You should get out before the same happens to you.”

  
  


Jaemin wants to say something, but his words keep looping in his mind like a broken record. He doesn’t register Taeyong pressing the wad of bills into Jeno’s hands, or the sincerity in his voice when he thanks him. He’s heard of defining moments before, and somehow he knows he’ll circle back to this moment years later as the start of something new.

  
  


Then Jeno’s walking out, and the boys are once again clapping him on the back, but this time, their faces light up with something close to joy. Jaemin remembers when Jeno had first walked into the bakery, and he sees the similarities. The same roughness in appearance, the invisible wait on their shoulders. He never thought they were that different from each other but there’s the line now, as clear as day.

  
  


And as Jeno lets the wave of boys carry him away from the bakery, Jaemin knows with a certainty that sits deep in his stomach that he won’t be coming back.

  
  


Not as the person he knows.

**[ 1997 ]**

  
  


Jeno never looked back that day he walked out of the bakery for the last time, so Jaemin doesn’t either. He graduates high school and manages to get into college, a night they celebrate with  _ soju _ despite Taeyong’s low tolerance, which ends with him getting misty-eyed and Jaemin dragging him up the stairs to the tiny apartment he would have to leave behind soon. Jaemin remembers what he says to him, down to the wistful smile on Taeyong’s face and the rain pattering outside.

  
  


“I won’t ask you to do what I couldn’t because that’s a load of bullshit. But I hope that whatever you end up doing, you have no regrets.”

  
  


He hangs onto the words like a lifeline, through the night classes he juggles with shitty part-time jobs to pay for his tuition, the classes he sometimes slept through because of how tired he is and classmates that feel a world apart because of their backgrounds. He bears with his apartment in  _ Ahyeon-dong _ ; it’s small, and the heater doesn’t work so he has to huddle up under the blankets during winter. He reminds himself that he’s doing what he likes, doing all of this for a better future.

  
  


And he truly does love it. The first camera he owned was a secondhand polaroid that a friend of Taeyong gave him. It started as a hobby, taking pictures of Taeyong at work or of the cherry blossom trees that line the street to his school. He never imagined he’d be able to get into college because of some photos he saved out of sentimentality. But the love for capturing moments stays, and he suspects it’s a passing regret from his days with Jeno at the bakery, not even having a photograph to hold onto the memories they made together.

  
  


Somedays, it gets hard. He wishes he’d stayed back in  _ Jegi-dong _ with Taeyong and their fat cat; success and money be damned. But when one of his professors praises the lighting pattern in his portraits or he gets recommended TV broadcasts and outside gigs, he thinks it’s worth it. He doesn’t expect his past to collide with his present out on the streets of  _ Hongdae _ , helping out one of his seniors with a magazine shoot.

  
  


It takes him a while to notice; he’s too busy setting up the lights and moving around equipment, hovering around his senior in case he needed something done, stealing glances at the models in their vibrant outfits. The project is the brainchild of some rich kid so he’s pulled out all the stops, hiring a vehicle to bring in props that line the graffiti-filled wall they’re going to be shooting against.

  
  


But it’s unmistakable — Jeno’s hair is shorter and he’s grown a couple of inches, but Jaemin doesn’t need a photograph to remember him. He’s unloading a few stools from the truck, his back to Jaemin, whose hands go white from clutching the tripod. He has to remind himself that he’s working, that he isn’t supposed to storm up to him and demand why he left and where he’s been, and why the fuck he’s here right now. 

  
  


And he thinks Jeno sees him, in the middle of him rushing about to change lenses under his senior’s command, through the flutter of the gauzy clothes that the models wear. Jaemin expects him to look away, but his gaze sears into his back the entire time. The shoot takes a while, with the models’ makeup being retouched under the hot sun and until everyone’s satisfied with the takes, but Jeno stays. He stands next to the truck, something akin to wistfulness on his face.

  
  


The back of Jaemin’s neck is sweaty when they finish loading all the gear back into the camera bags and the truck. He thinks he and Jeno brush hands a few times, but neither of them say a word until people start dispersing one by one. Jaemin’s imagined meeting him again so many times, but now that it’s happened, he feels like an outsider looking in. It takes his senior asking if he’s okay to go back and Jeno offering him a ride to his apartment to realize that he’s not imagining things. 

  
  


Jaemin barely manages a bow as his senior leaves. They’re not alone; Hongdae’s streets are always teeming with college students looking forward to the approaching night, but it feels like it. The air is getting cooler and Jaemin aches for a cigarette or anything that would help ease the awkwardness that falls thick as they stand too close for people that had missed too much of each other’s lives.

  
  


Jaemin breaks first, he always does when it comes to Jeno.

  
  


“Were you ever going to come back that day?”

  
  


Jeno looks at him, really looks at him for the first time that day. The helpless expression on his face is the same one he wore all those years ago.

  
  


“Would you believe it if I said yes?” he asks softly. 

  
  


“Sounds stupid, but we waited for you. Taeyong and I.” It’s silly but Jaemin feels like Jeno has reduced him to his seventeen-year-old self again, waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back.

  
  


Jeno lets out a small, strangled sound. “I meant what I said to you that day. I wanted to come back, but we got in some trouble.”

  
Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “Your friends? Hate to say this, but I think anyone could have seen that coming.”

  
  


Jeno chuckles, although it’s humourless. “I was in juvie, Jaemin.”

  
  


Jaemin’s foot slips off the truck tire it was resting on. He curses his goddamn lack of tact, his tendency to jump to conclusions before waiting for the truth.

  
  


“Fuck, I’m sorry. How—?”    
  
  
He can’t bring himself to word the rest of the question.   
  


Jeno shrugs, and the thoughtlessness of the action makes him wonder what else he’s gotten accustomed to. “We pissed off some people we shouldn’t have. Point is, I had to move, and I couldn’t reach you. I know it’s a shit excuse but I—,”

  
Jaemin cuts him off, shaking his head. He smiles, sharing the relief that appears on Jeno’s face. “It’s fine. I’m just glad we met.”

  
  


He is. His speculation over the years may have soured their reunion, but something about Jeno’s presence has always made him feel grounded in his purpose. The sensation is strong now, like what he’s been working towards since ‘94 has somehow lead to this moment, and will lead to more. And for once, Jaemin’s happy to hand fate the reins.

  
  


“You look good,” Jeno says, finally smiling. Jaemin knows he does; the admiration he got from people in school has trickled it’s way into his college life. He made friends easily, supposed that was one of his biggest strengths. But something about Jeno saying it makes him feel warm. Truly seen.

  
  


“So do you,” Jaemin answers truthfully. Jeno was always strong, but now he’s filled out, the way his shirt sticks close to his body betraying his muscular build. “Looks like you’ve been working out.”

  
  


Jeno laughs, and the sound shouldn’t be this comforting. “If you call slaving away at two jobs working out.”

  
And that’s the catalyst — it’s so easy after that. Sitting in the back of Jeno’s truck, Jaemin complains about his apartment and the snobby kids he has to deal with daily while Jeno fills him in on his life — how he graduated from high school in the end and is contemplating going to college. It’s funny because he doubts they’ve had one conversation that lasted this long back when they were kids, but in a way, it’s appropriate. They’ve both changed, in some way or other.

  
  


They stay there until the after-work crowd becomes so thick that it’s impossible to have a proper conversation. Jaemin has to attend his classes the next day, and it just hits him how exhausted he is, unable to stifle the yawn that cuts him off mid-sentence. Jeno looks at him with fondness — or is that the glow of the streetlights and vehicles playing tricks on him mind? — and hops off the truck, palming his keys.

  
  


“I’ll take you home,” he offers, and Jaemin doesn’t decline because they’re reunited and they have all the time in the world.

  
  
The drive to Jaemin’s apartment is a little quiet, but not uncomfortable. Jeno wears glasses when he drives, which of course he can’t resist making fun of but his steady hands on the wheel and the staticky radio makes him feel at ease. The truck crawls up the winding roads and under the guise of night, it looks almost like home. When Jeno pulls to a stop in front of his building, he doesn’t want to get out.

  
  


The silence threatens to grow awkward, so Jaemin scrambles to say something. It’s not lost on him that if he lets go of Jeno now, there’s no telling when they’ll meet again.

  
  


“We should go out for a meal. Is there somewhere I can call you? Work maybe?”

  
  


“Jaemin—,” Jeno tries to say, but once he starts rambling, it’s hard to stop.

  
  


“There’s this bar I know that serves the best  _ pajeon, _ it’ll be my treat—,”

  
  


“Jaemin, would you  _ listen _ ?” Jeno hisses, but Jaemin only shuts up because he grabs hold of his arm. Jeno releases his grip, a bitter smile working its way to his lips.

“What?”

  
  


“I’ve enlisted. I ship out this week.”

  
  


All the breath leaves Jaemin’s lungs in a singular  _ whoosh _ . “Oh,” he murmurs, because what else can he say? He’s heard of terrible timing before, but this takes the cake.

  
  


“Yeah,” Jeno winces, “I just figured I’d get it out of the way before college. Plus, the pay doesn’t hurt.”

  
  


“That makes sense,” Jaemin mutters. He feels stupid for getting his hopes up, like always. Stupid Jaemin.

  
  


Jeno’s hand is back on his arm, the touch soothing. “Believe me, I’d love to go for drinks with you. But I have to smooth things out with my bosses and move my stuff. Sorry.”

  
  
How can he even be mad when he looks at him like that, eyes all soft and imploring? So Jaemin works up something close to a smile, trying to look on the bright side. At least they met today. At least after all this time, he knows Jeno never meant to leave him behind. Not willingly.

  
  


“It’s alright,” he reassures, “we just have shit timing, I guess.”

  
  


Jeno laughs, the sound coming from deep within his belly. “God, the  _ worst _ .” 

  
  


Jaemin looks out the window at his building, the lights still on in most of the apartments. When he looks back, Jeno’s staring at him with an intensity that makes his insides twist into confusing knots.

  
  


“When exactly do you leave?” he asks.

  
  


“Friday,” Jeno breathes as if he understands what Jaemin’s about to say.

  
  


He smiles, and it’s the kind where he’s all teeth — a little dangerous, he likes to think. It fits because this is both an opportunity and a risk, but Jaemin knows that when you stumble onto those, you need to grab them with both hands before they slip away. And Jaemin’s not letting Jeno slip away again, at least not without a fight.

  
  


So he topples the next domino. He invites Jeno inside.

**[ 1997 ]**

  
  


The day Jaemin moves out of his first apartment, his last look around reminds him of that one night Jeno spent in it, the two of them curled up on his tiny bed, too close. Too far away. It’s funny how the years that passed with him living here have all culminated to that one moment, but he’s learned that Jeno has that effect on him — he sees him as if he’s looking through a camera, everything else just blends into the background.

  
A part of him is glad Jeno had to leave the next day. The simple act of him being back already had Jaemin revisiting scenarios that he should have left behind when he was a teenager. They didn’t dwell on their goodbye, just shared an awkward hug as they revisited the previous night’s resolution to write to each other while Jeno serves out his term. But in Jeno’s haste to leave and Jaemin trying his hardest not to say anything that would worsen the awkwardness, he forgets to give Jeno his address.

  
  


It makes Jaemin smile to think of it, the devastation when he’d realized he had no way to get in touch with Jeno. Again. Fate has a sense of humour when it comes to their relationship, he guesses. He tries not to let it bother him, just throws himself into studying and work. And it pays off because he ends up landing a job at an advertising firm as their in-house photographer. The pay beats working freelance, and he could afford a larger studio apartment with a closet he converts into a dark room.

  
  


It’s there that he stands now, after looking through the box where he keeps his unused reels and photos that don’t make it into his portfolio. He has some of his new friends bar-hopping and watching live shows, which makes him smile. Some of Taeyong from when he goes back to visit. But he goes for a set of prints he’s left untouched for a while, the photos he convinced Jeno to take outside his old apartment.

  
He first finds the one where Jeno’s facing the camera, a tense but smiling figure cut in black and white. But his favourite is beneath it, and he can’t help the smile when he takes it out of the sleeve. Jeno’s turned away from him, the branches of the cherry tree he’s standing under casting shadows over his features. It’s been sitting here since he got it printed, but Jaemin figures it’s time to let go now.    
  


He’s at his work table when his pager buzzes, the poor excuse of a threat only managing to make him scoff, more out of fondness than irritation.

  
  


_ “Jaemin — you’re late. Be there in 15 or else.” _

  
  


He slips the print in between the rest of the photos that he means to include in his portrait and glances at his watch. He isn’t worried about his date, not really. He has all the time in the world.

**[ 1997 ]**

  
  


“But Jeno, what’s  _ your  _ dream?”

  
  


Jaemin whispers the question half-hoping that Jeno has fallen asleep. Before the silence, they’d been talking about his passion for photography, how he wanted it to leave a mark. But he’s tired of talking about himself. He’d rather talk about the boy who threatened to leave if Jaemin didn’t stop insisting he take the bed and sleep on the floor.

  
  


They compromised and settled for sharing the bed, but Jaemin doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think about how Jeno’s so close he can see the outline of his chest in the darkness, rising and falling with each breath. The way the bed dipped with his weight and exuded warmth. So he does what he does best. He talks.

  
  


“My dream?” Jeno repeats, as if the sentiment is foreign.

  
  


“Yeah. Like, there must be something you want to do. Something that gets you out of bed every day.”

  
  


Jeno chuckles, and Jaemin forgets about his resolution and elbows Jeno, turning on his side. 

  
  


“Ow, stop! It’s just funny how you’ve always thought about the long haul,” Jeno confesses, pushing Jaemin away before he could attack him again. “I just take it one day at a time. Is that weird?”

  
  


Jaemin shakes his head and then remembers Jeno probably can’t see him, blind as he is. “It’s not. It’s you.”

  
  


Jeno is silent and for a few moments, Jaemin’s sure he can hear his own heart beating. There was something about him that always cracks Jaemin’s composure, makes him say things he would rather lock up out of sight.

  
  


“God, where’d you learn to be that cheesy? College?”

  
  


This time Jaemin kicks Jeno, who of course, barely budges.

  
  


“Since when do you know how to tease?” he grumbles, too tired to really terrorize him. 

  
  


“Maybe you just never noticed,” Jeno responds. Jaemin knows he’s just saying it, but it makes him think about all the things he doesn’t know about Jeno. About the reason he showed up at the bakery, the reason he spent time in juvie. He wants to ask, but he’s too worried about toeing boundaries. Besides, it doesn’t seem right to dwell on the past when this is both reunion and farewell. For a time.

  
  


“Jaemin?” Jeno murmurs, pulling him out of his thoughts. He turns on his side, thankful that the blinds are drawn so he doesn’t have to see the moonlight on Jeno’s face.

  
  


“Yeah?”

  
  


“About what you asked before. My dream,” Jeno starts, hesitation lacing his tone, “I think for now I’d like to find something that gives me purpose. Is that stupid? Does that count as a dream?”   
  


Jaemin smiles, half-sleepy, and half-fond.

  
  


“‘Course it does. It’s not stupid at all.”

  
  


In fact, Jaemin thinks it makes a hell of a lot more sense than anything else.

**[ 1998 ]**

Jeno keeps all the letters he wrote but never got to send. Sometimes, the other soldiers asked him who he was writing to at the crack of dawn, or whenever he found free time being patrols and drills, but he never told any of them. It was comforting to let out all his thoughts, even if Jaemin will never see them. He doesn’t know why he brings them along when he returns to the city, to the apartment building perched on a hilly street in  _ Ahyeon-dong _ .

  
  


Getting there took some trial and error, but there’s no mistaking the peeling paint of the complex and the cherry tree with its blossoms dusting the tarmac in spots of pink and white. He doesn’t remember Jaemin’s apartment number, so he asks the aging landlord about him by name — there’s somehow no doubt in his mind that he’ll remember him. He doesn’t think it’s possible that anyone could ever forget Jaemin, whose existence burns bright like the sun.

  
  


But the landlord just gives him a pitying look, standing there in his best shirt, bag slung over his shoulder. Jeno’s stomach sinks before he says the words.

  
  


“He moved out a year ago, son.”

  
  


“Oh,” Jeno breathes. Is this how Jaemin felt when he dropped the bomb about his enlistment? The old guilt returns. “Did he leave an address? A number? Is there any way I can get in touch with him?”

  
  


The landlord frowns in thought. “I don’t recall, but even if he did, I can’t just give out his details. You understand.”

  
  


“I’m...I’m a childhood friend. We lived in the same neighbourhood,” Jeno insists. “Please, could you just check?”

  
  


The man clicks his tongue, but rummages through his desk anyway, pulling up some old records. Jeno taps his foot as he waits, resisting the urge to read over his shoulder because, with his age and bad eyesight, the landlord takes his sweet time poring over the scribbled text.

  
  


“Ah, Na Jaemin, here it is,” he murmurs, and Jeno perks up, swallowing against a dry throat. “Apartment 221… Vacant… No address or contact number...”

  
  


Jeno sighs, his shoulders deflating. “It’s okay. Thanks for your help.”

  
He bows preparing to leave, but the man interrupts him. The pitying tone of his voice has changed to kindness.

  
  


“I hope you find you find your friend, son.”

  
  


Jeno manages a smile, but barely. “Thank you, sir.”

  
  


Over the man’s shoulder, a couple begins to descend the stairs, looking close to his age. An elderly lady, presumably the landlord’s wife, is talking to them, showing them around the place. The smiles on their faces makes an unnameable feeling rise in Jeno’s stomach, slowly bubbling over until he approaches the landlord again, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag.

  
  


“On second thought, are you having viewings right now?”

  
  


The landlord looks confused, but nods. Jeno brightens, remembering the conversation he had with Jaemin in his bed, and the far-away tone of his voice as he talked about his aspirations for the future. Maybe it’s a silly thing to think, but somehow, he feels like the choice he’s about to make is the right one.

  
  


“I’d like to see apartment 221, please.”

**[ 2000 ]**

  
  


Jeno remembers being a kid and learning about parallel lines, how they could run alongside the other yet never meet in the middle. He has never considered himself a romantic, but he can’t help but compare it to his relationship with Jaemin. They’ve moved in the same direction for years, never meeting where it matters. It doesn’t even surprise him when they cross paths once more. Instead, he feels a sense of certainty, like it’s supposed to happen.

  
  


Jaemin comes to him this time, quite literally. When Jeno’s boss told him and the rest of the employees that he’d rented out the second floor to an advertising agency, Jeno doesn’t expect it to be the one Jaemin works at. He’s in his seat by the window, taking a break from staring at his laptop when he sees Jaemin, the sun reflecting off his dyed hair while he laughs at someone’s stray comment. Looking at him, Jeno understands the appeal of capturing a moment in time more than he ever has before. 

  
  


The spell breaks when Jaemin looks at him, his smile faltering and giving away to something indescribable. Jeno can’t look away, sucked into the intent behind his gaze. He thinks of parallel lines again when someone — a coworker, perhaps — nudges Jaemin, shoving a box into his arms. Jaemin blinks and ultimately looks away first. Jeno hears their footsteps on the staircase up the side that leads to the second floor. Their laughter stays with him long after he stops hearing it.

  
  


The rest of his afternoon is a blur, the words he types are flashing away on the screen but not really registering in his mind. He thinks back to that one night before he enlisted, the soft lull of Jaemin’s breathing and the overwhelming feeling of home coaxing him to sleep. Jaemin tossed in his sleep, and their lips had been inches apart that Jeno was tempted to touch them. But he shied away like he always did.

  
  


He doesn’t want to keep doing that.

  
He waits, even after the clock hits six and his coworkers file out with plans to meet up for drinks, patting him on the shoulder or sending a word of encouragement as they leave. He only closes up the office when he hears noise from above, eager voices looking forward to what a night in _Hongdae’s_ streets has to offer. He steels himself, throws his bag over his shoulder, and ventures out.

  
  


Jaemin has a cigarette caught between his teeth, but his smile is still in place, aimed at the same person from before, with dark hair and a pleasant voice. Jeno swallows but stands his ground. Jaemin’s cigarette flares when he spots him and Jeno manages a faint smile. His stomach twists into uncomfortable knots, reminiscent of the time Jaemin invited him into his apartment.

  
  


“Mark, I’ll call you,” Jaemin murmurs, gesturing at his friend.    
  


“Um, okay,” Mark says, his eyebrows meeting in confusion. “‘Night, Jaemin.”

  
  


He offers Jeno a tentative smile as he passes, which he wishes he could return, but Jaemin bears the brunt of his attention. The longer he goes without saying a word, the more anxious Jeno starts to feel. Even dressed in denim and an open flannel shirt, Jaemin cuts an impressive figure, and it makes Jeno feel like he’s way out of his depth.

  
  


“Hi,” he murmurs.

  
  


Jaemin’s lips pull into a half-smile, which makes him relax in the slightest. “I’m actually starting to lose count of how many times we’ve done this.”

  
  


Jeno has a strong urge to apologize but he stops himself. “It’s kind of becoming a tradition, huh? When did that start?” he gestures at the remnants of Jaemin’s cigarette.

  
  


Jaemin crushes it underfoot. “You’ve missed a bit.”

  
  


“Sorry—,” the apology slips out, but Jaemin just shakes his head. He doesn’t seem angry, just resigned.

  
  


“Are you staying for good this time, Jeno?”

  
  


Something about that question and the way the setting sun colours Jaemin in soft reds and golds makes Jeno’s chest tighten. All these years, and it’s not lost on him how he’s always the one to leave, whether he wants to or not. He’s thought about how that makes Jaemin feels, but he never wanted to overestimate his own feelings importance. The look on Jaemin’s face says it all now.

  
  


“Yeah, I am,” he says. He knows words aren’t enough, but hopes Jaemin can see he means them.

  
  


Jaemin moves closer until he’s barely a few feet away. He smells like smoke, cologne, and something familiar Jeno can’t place.

  
  


“You know, you keep saying that and I keep waiting for you. Pretty stupid, huh?”

  
  


“No!” Jeno insists, voice a little too sharp. “It’s not. And I mean it, Jaemin, I  _ swear _ .” When Jaemin doesn’t respond, he continues. “When I got back from the army, I looked for you. I went to your building, but you didn’t leave a number or address. I even went to see Taeyong, but—,”

  
  


“You went to see Taeyong?” Jaemin cuts in, eyes widening.

  
  


“Of course I did. I figured he’d know where you were, but the bakery was closed.”

  
  


“I can’t believe this,” Jaemin murmurs. 

  
  


Jeno sighs because it’s the only thing he can do. “I was never avoiding you, Jaemin. We just have shit timing.”

  
  


Jaemin barks out a laugh that’s only a little scornful. “Yeah, you don’t say.”

  
  


“Would you believe me if I said I rented your apartment?”

  
  


“Wait, what?”

  
  


Jeno smiles. “Yeah. I could afford the rent and I thought you might come back at some point. Granted, it was a long shot but I’ve been living there since.”

  
  


“But the heater—,”

  
  


“Fixed it. Perks of being a mechanic’s son.”

  
  


Jaemin starts laughing then, and the slight note of hysteria worries Jeno, but he doesn’t say anything out of fear that he’ll upset him. “God, I can’t believe you sometimes. And now you work here of all places. It’s as if… no never mind, that’s stupid.”

  
  


Jeno doesn’t prompt him, but he has an idea of what he was about to say. It’s something he’s thought for the longest time too. There has to be a reason they keep meeting as if one was a ship in stormy seas and the other was the comforting beam of a lighthouse. And if anyone’s provided him a safe haven all this time, it would be Jaemin.

  
  


“So yeah, I’m staying. You’re not getting rid of me,” he states.

  
Jaemin murmurs something that sounds like  _ “as if I even want to” _ but Jeno doesn’t want to dwell on that. He holds onto his next words instead.

  
  


“God, help me, I believe you.”

  
  


The relief Jeno feels is enough to make him feel woozy, so he grabs onto Jaemin’s wrist. The other man stiffens and relaxes in the same breath, and Jeno can feel his pulse through his warm skin. Fast, alive — he thinks it’s a good representation of Jaemin himself. Always moving, until the inevitable end.

  
  


“Then come with me,” he whispers, now aware of how close they’re standing. The wind lifts strands of Jaemin’s blonde hair, which tickle Jeno’s forehead. In a supreme act of bravery, his hand slips from Jaemin’s wrist to his fingers, touching them lightly. 

  
  


“Where?” Jaemin asks, the questioning lift of his eyebrow contrasting with the softness of his voice.

  
  


Jeno squeezes his hands like they’re kids again. “Home.”

**[ 1994 ]**

Jeno and Taeyong spend a lot of time alone when Jaemin’s away at school. Jeno doesn’t mind — Taeyong keeps to the kitchen, occasionally checking up on him and letting him try the pastries he’s making. Even when he watches over Jeno sweeping the floors or serving the customers, his presence is never overbearing, and he doesn’t try to get Jeno to open up, not the way Jaemin sometimes does. He feels a strange sense of camaraderie with him; it doesn’t escape him how they’ve both used this place as a sanctuary.

  
  


So of course he says yes when Taeyong asks him to help out with the menu; the chalk lettering on the old board was fading, the prices next to the items mostly indiscernible. He rarely asks for anything beyond his ‘job description’ so Jeno’s happy to oblige, abandoning his post at the counter.

  
  


“You can mess around with the names too,” Taeyong adds, pausing at the beaded curtains that lead to the kitchen. “We might have more luck with customers if the menu’s a little more interesting.”

  
  


Jeno has no idea what to do with that but he nods anyway, earning a smile. He’s not sure what exactly he’s saving up for by working here, but it has to be better than his father’s expectations of him earning straight out of high school. Jeno’s grateful for him, for raising him since his mother’s death, but he doesn’t think he has it in him to be stuck here living the same life, around the same people.

  
  


He’s lucky enough that his father believes he’s still practicing as an apprentice when he actually uses this place as an escape. Neither Taeyong nor Jaemin expect more from him than he can give, so it feels like a respite, no matter how temporary it is. Jeno isn’t stupid — he knows that this will backfire on him at some point, whether his father finds out or his friends do, but he’s determined to enjoy the feeling while it lasts.

  
  


He shakes away the thoughts of his father and friends and spends the next hour bent over the chalkboard, with different coloured nubs of chalk on the floor around him. It’s not as hard as he thought to come up with different names for Taeyong’s best selling desserts — he only has to think about his first day here, all his exaggerated teenage feelings being soothed by that one bite of  _ kkwabaegi _ . Before long, he has the entire slate covered in his neat script, the words something he’d never used outside his Korean class.

  
  


When Taeyong comes back to stock the shelves, he looks pleasantly surprised with his work. He even laughs — not unkindly — at how Jeno described his mochi bread as devilishly delicious. 

  
  


“Good job,” Taeyong praises, ruffling his hair. “You have a way with words.”

  
  


Jeno flattens his hair once more, but thanks him, a pleased blush making its way to his cheeks. It feels good to have someone acknowledge that he’s proficient at something other than fixing things. He wonders whether Taeyong knows the impact of what he said as he smiles at the chalkboard, standing it next to the display counter and admiring his handiwork. 

  
  


He hangs onto the words nevertheless.

**[ 2000 ]**

  
  


It’s insane to come back to a place that was once home but feels so different now.

  
  


Jaemin’s old apartment looks nothing like it did, with Jeno being far neater than he ever was and much better at fixing things. The first few minutes since Jeno opened the door, he’s spent staring at the living room wall that he formerly used as a photo wall, the books that were stacked on the floor in place of Jaemin’s camera equipment and the kitchen that was well-stocked and well-used, although he’s supposed to be the son of a baker, not Jeno.

  
  


But he doesn’t complain — far from it — when Jeno pops open a couple of bottles of  _ soju  _ and whips up some quick  _ haemul pajeon _ , as if a nod to the time when he wanted to go get drinks with him, back in ‘97. His heart beats a little faster when he thinks how after all this time, he still remembers. Then again, it could be the wishful thinking that Jaemin’s so prone to indulge in. He honestly doesn’t care at this point, just looks at Jeno’s soft eyes over the low table, alternating between smiling back and sipping his drink.

  
  


It’s strange how easy they fall back into that familiar rhythm — Jaemin can only describe it as wanting but never daring to reach out. He likes to think he’s proactive, that he would work for something if he really wants it, but he hasn’t been able to let Jeno know what he wants from him. And what does he want? He can never get past the concept of wanting itself — an ache that burns so strong he can’t see anything beyond it.

  
  


The only relief he has is that this time, Jeno’s the one who took the first step. The fingers of his free hand still tingling from where Jeno touched them earlier. It lies on the table, so close to Jeno’s own but never touching. He notices him looking at it and smiles a little. Jeno’s voice breaks him out of his reverie.

  
  


“How’s Taeyong doing?”

  
  


The concern is palpable in his voice and Jaemin smiles wider to placate him.

  
  


“You must have caught him on an off day,” Jaemin says. Taeyong still manages their small building, but as more of a home bakery than an actual store, since he doesn’t have to worry about money as much now. “I was thinking of having him open up shop here, honestly. He was getting pretty popular.”

  
  


“That would be great!” Jeno grins, and the sudden burst of happiness is so rare that Jaemin pauses mid-bite. Jeno’s cheeks colour. “I mean… he helped me out a lot, you and him both. I’m glad he’s doing well.”

  
  


Jaemin gestures at Jeno with his chopsticks. “Speaking of, when did the whole writing start?”

  
  


Jeno’s expression grows softer, as if he’s recalling a fond memory. “I’ve liked it for a while,” he confesses, “I just… didn’t have a chance back at home.”

  
  


Jaemin perks up. Jeno rarely speaks about  _ home _ unless prompted.

  
  


“My dad wanted me to do something different. But I saw the chance and took it.” He fixes Jaemin with a meaningful look. “I don’t regret it.”

  
  


Doubts be damned, Jaemin wants so bad to grab his hand just then. He settles for a smile he hopes is encouraging. “Good for you,” he says, and means it.

  
  


They finish up dinner in companionable silence and do the dishes side by side, their arms brushing with every movement. Jaemin finds himself leaning into the touch, and Jeno doesn’t protest. He kind of hates himself for it, because he wanted to leave whatever he feels for Jeno in the past, but it’s as if they’re so tangled up in each other they can’t escape. Jaemin doesn’t know if he even wants to.

  
  


They take their bottles of  _ soju  _ out to Jaemin’s favourite part of the apartment when he lived there — the balcony.  _ Mapo-gu’s _ lights shine bright, and people wander the streets, wrapped up to protect from the chill. Jaemin suppresses a shiver as he leans over the railing, hands clasped around his bottle. Jeno has his back to the railing, and if he were a more hopeful person, he’d think he’s looking at him.

  
  


But Jaemin’s a realist, so when he turns, he’s not surprised to see Jeno looking anywhere but at him. Still, there’s colour high on his cheeks and a sort of urgency in the way he gulps down half his drink in one go, expression tightening at the bitterness.

  
  


“Woah,” Jaemin laughs, “slow down—,”

  
  


“You know,” Jeno cuts him off, “I thought we were like parallel lines for a while.”

  
  


Jaemin stares at him. “What?”

  
  


“Yeah like, always close but never touching.” Jeno’s tone is hasty, and Jaemin’s heart starts to pick up as he hopes against hope. “It sounds stupid, but I’m tired of it. Of one of us always having to play catch up.”

  
  


“So what do you want to do?” Jaemin drops his voice to a whisper — he just feels as if it’s appropriate. The wind picks up, and strands of Jeno’s hair fall into his eyes, but he finally looks straight at Jaemin, and it takes him back to the first time they’d met, when he’d been unable to look away from him.

  
  


The same feeling holds him in place now.

  
  


“Meet,” Jeno murmurs. 

  
  


Jaemin opens his mouth, but he finds Jeno joining him halfway.

  
Jeno’s kiss tastes like hope and bitterness, and Jaemin almost lets the bottle of soju in his hands crash onto the streets below. Like everything about Jeno, the kiss is sweet, but the tight grip he has on his waist and the way he sighs into Jaemin’s mouth when he kisses him back is nothing short of passionate. 

“Wha—,” Jaemin mumbles into his lips, but Jeno has no thoughts of letting go. His hand moves to his back, and Jaemin’s thankful he steps closer and hooks a leg under his because his knees feel weak. He would be lying if he’s said he’s never thought of kissing Jeno, but he didn’t imagine he’d feel as if a car had run him over but in the best way possible.

  
  


Jaemin’s back presses against the railing, and a breathy laugh escapes him as Jeno nibbles on his bottom lip. There’s a pleasant buzzing in his skull, and he barely even registers the sounds of the streets below, holding onto the fabric of Jeno’s jacket like it’s a lifeline. And maybe he’s not alone in that sentiment, because Jeno’s looking at him as if he’s holding up the entire world.

  
  


Has he always looked at him like that?

  
  


“I never thought you’d lead with a math reference,” Jaemin croaks, his inability to keep his mouth shut forever the bane of any sweet moment. “Actually, I never thought you’d lead at all but that was nice. We should do it more often.”

  
  


Jeno ducks his head and after a moment’s hesitation, brings it down on Jaemin’s shoulder. “You want to?” he asks, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt but hopeful enough to make Jaemin’s chest tighten.

  
  


“Yeah well, I just kissed you back, didn’t I?” he chuckles, hoping that it’ll make Jeno laugh, but all he does is straighten to face Jaemin, a hint of panic on his pretty features.

  
  


“Are you sure?” he presses. “After all those times I left?”   
  


Jaemin has questioned the same thing for years, wondered why Jeno’s a chapter in his life that he somehow keeps turning back to until the pages of their story were dog-eared, never getting closer to a proper ending. But now he knows it’s because neither of them was brave enough for a beginning.

  
  


Until now.

  
  


“But you came back,” Jaemin murmurs, smiling despite himself. “That’s enough for me.”

**[ 2001 ]**

  
  


It’s shockingly easy for the two of them fall into a rhythm — pressing kisses to cheeks in between sips of their morning coffee at Jeno’s apartment, where Jaemin spends more time at than his own and laughing at their coworkers’ confused glances whenever their companies go out for lunch together. With Jeno around for good, Jaemin feels like an unfinished portrait finally being coloured in, Jeno’s existence the finishing strokes.

  
  


His favourite moments are the ones before they fall asleep, trying to breathe in tandem before one of them starts laughing, their legs tangled and lips within inches of the other. He thinks of that first night together, how the pieces have shifted since and fallen into place to let them be together. When Jeno’s in that space between sleep and wakefulness, his content sighs stirring Jaemin’s hair, he swears not to take it for granted. 

  
  


He’s determined to take as many photos of Jeno as he can — in the bathroom brushing his teeth, on the balcony watching the city lights, on the streets whenever they have free time to go out, his smile more blinding than the flash of Jaemin’s camera. He loves it the most when he grows shy, throwing a hand up over his face or simply pulling Jaemin in for a kiss to distract him.

  
  


It works every time.

  
  


Jaemin has a more flexible schedule, so Jeno often leaves little notes tacked onto the fridge before he leaves for work. They remind him to eat breakfast, pick up groceries or about dinner plans with their work friends. Jaemin’s grateful for it because once he gets in the zone, everything else falls away. In return, he gets Jeno to loosen up. He drags him around  _ Hongdae _ , to the murals and the musicians playing their soft guitar riffs, into tourist traps just to buy something stupid and laugh over the ridiculous prices. They both ground each other in opposite ways.

  
  


It’s their first winter together, but it feels like one of many. Tonight’s a bit warmer than usual, and Jaemin is sprawled over the sofa, his head resting on Jeno’s lap while he holds a book in one hand, the other threading through Jaemin’s hair. Occasionally, he whines for his attention but lets him read for the most part, content to just  _ be _ . Jaemin supposes he’s gotten used to this, to letting his guard down and assuming that nothing would rip Jeno out of his arms again.

  
Of course, he’s wrong. It just doesn’t happen how he expects it to.

  
  


It starts with a phone call. Jaemin respects Jeno’s space so he shuts his eyes again, but he knows something is wrong the instant Jeno’s tone shifts from confused to harried. His boyfriend leaves the couch, phone pressed to his ear, his tone clipped as he has a short conversation with whoever is on the other end of the line.

  
  


“I’ll be there soon,” he mutters and flips his phone shut. Jaemin sits up, watching Jeno hurry across the room, grabbing one of the duffel bags Jaemin sometimes uses to lug around equipment. Jaemin’s mind races with the worst possible scenarios — maybe it’s something to do with that crowd of high school kids he used to hang around; what did he call one of them? Hyuck?

  
  


He wants to wait for Jeno to tell him, but it’s too hard to keep his mouth shut when Jeno disappears into his room, and he hears the bag being unzipped.

  
  


“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asks, standing at the doorway. Jeno pauses in the act of shoving clothes into the back, giving Jaemin a look he can only call closed-off.

  
  


“I have to go see my dad,” he responds.    
  
  
Warning bells ring in Jaemin’s head, but he persists. “Why? Was it him that called?”

  
  


Jeno shakes his head, and Jaemin watches as he grabs his wallet off the bedside table and pockets it. Jaemin’s anxiety spikes, his eyes widening. “You’re leaving  _ now _ ?” He hates how his voice breaks at the end of the question, but he can’t pretend he isn’t upset.

  
  


“Yeah,” Jeno murmurs, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  
  


Jaemin blocks the doorway before he can move past him. “Why? I’m sorry if I’m crossing any lines here, but wasn’t your dad the sole reason you got into that crowd? The reason why you quit school and almost didn’t go to college? Why would you want to go see him now?”

  
  


“Jaemin, I can’t talk about this right now,” Jeno states and the calmness of his voice is a direct contrast to the way Jaemin’s grows more distraught by the second. “Please move.”

  
Jaemin crosses his arms over his chest. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  
  


“I’ll explain when I’m back,” Jeno promises, “but for now, I need to go.” He brushes past Jaemin, who follows, his anxiety giving away to anger.

  
  


“So what, you’re just going to push me away? Again? All to go back to someone who never once supported your choices?”

  
Jeno can’t hide the flash of hurt that passes over his face, and Jaemin regrets his words instantly, wishing he could swallow them back.

  
  


“Wait, I didn’t mean that—,”

  
  


“He’s dead, Jaemin,” Jeno grounds out, sounding strangely detached.

  
  


Jaemin feels sick. “What?”

  
  


“He had a stroke,” Jeno continues, anger and bitterness lacing his tone. “Donghyuck just called me. I have to prepare for the funeral.” 

  
  


“Shit, Jeno. I’m sorry,” Jaemin grabs his hand, but Jeno doesn’t let their fingers intertwine, which hurts more than it should. “I’ll help you. I’ll come with—,”

  
  


“Actually,” Jeno starts, gently pulling out of his grip, “I think it’s better if I do this alone.”

  
  


Jaemin doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s always been an open book, so he expects Jeno to be the same, but that isn’t fair is it? How could he put that into words when Jeno’s already shrugging into his jacket, his bag draped over his shoulders? A heaviness that he hasn’t felt for a while throbs in his chest, and he just stands aside, letting Jeno get to the door.

  
  


He opens it, but looks back at the last moment. Jaemin’s not sure whether to feel hope at that, at the promise in his eyes.

  
  


“We’ll talk when it’s over, okay?”

  
  


Jaemin can barely manage a nod and then, after giving him something that is close to a smile but not quite, Jeno slips out. His footsteps thudding through the hallway seem to fall in time with the pace of Jaemin’s heart. He drops back onto the couch, a hand over his eyes, wondering if this time, Jeno’s walking away for good.

**[ 2001 ]**

  
  


Jaemin has been staying with Taeyong for the better part of a week. While it’s fitting that he’s come back to the place where his relationship with Jeno began, it’s strange to not have him by his side. But after all these years, Jaemin has learned not to try so hard, so he waits while Jeno makes funeral arrangements, expecting him to stay true to his promise. He had decided to return before he even knew it; grabbed the morning train the day after Jeno left. He doesn’t know if it’s to find Jeno or seek the comfort of home, but he’s glad he did it,

  
  


It’s jarring to be back here after the city life he’s gotten used to, and at the same time, freeing to give himself a break. Moving so fast from college to work without sparing a second to breathe has made it hard to process what’s happening in his life, with Jeno pulling away from him again. He supposes he has a good reason this time, but it doesn’t dull the ache in his heart.

  
  


Taeyong tries, roping him into helping him bake and keeping him company whenever he can, but as much as Jaemin appreciates it, there’s only so much the other man can do. These past three days he’s itched to look for Jeno, to see how he’s doing and give him a shoulder to lean on. While he knows that his relationship with his father was never good, it can’t be easy losing the only family he had left. But Jeno made it clear that he wants to do this on his own, so Jaemin does what he does best.

  
  


He waits.

  
  


Not even the weather is on his side, the cloudless skies and warm rays of sun clashing with the heaviness in Jeamin’s heart. He’s sitting outside, petting their cat and watching people pass by, people who see him on the surface and think of him as a successful Seoulite. It reminds him of how he used to look at the more fortunate and wish he could get there. Now he knows that it doesn’t matter how much money you have or whether you went to a good college, life catches up to you anyway.

He doesn’t know how, but he knows that Jeno will seek him out, will know that he’s here. Maybe all those years of skirting around each other have their actions predictable, but Jeno doesn’t look surprised to see him either.

  
  


It strikes him how different he looks. The first time they met, he was languid, as if he’s given into the slow rhythm of life in this neighbourhood. Now, he walks with a purpose that Jaemin shared when he was younger, shoulders squared, and looking straight ahead. But Jeno will always be Jeno, so his expression softens when he catches sight of Jaemin, his hands going into his pockets as if he’s afraid he’ll reach out.

  
  


Jaemin stands.

  
  


“How are you?” he asks. He wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know if Jeno will hear him out, so he settles for the safe thing to say.

  
  


Jeno lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “The funeral was yesterday,” he states, and his voice sounds far-away. Maybe a week ago, Jaemin have wanted to ask why he didn’t tell him, but now he knows that there are parts of Jeno that will always belong solely to him, and that shouldn’t make him feel bad. “I feel fine, I guess.”

  
  


Jaemin knows he doesn’t, but he accepts it. They walk in tandem, their feet kicking the dust, hands swinging just out of reach. When Jeno speaks, it sounds like a question that he’s rehearsed many times.

  
  


“I’m going to see him. Do you want to come?”

  
  


This is way of reaching out. Of course Jaemin agrees.

  
  


“I don’t have anything with me,” he says, and Jeno holds up a bag that he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. But that’s how it’s is with Jeno. He’s always the focus.

  
  


“I’ve got rice wine,” he says.

  
  


The walk is short; the cemetery is a small one, and Jaemin wonders how many of the town’s dead have been buried here, years upon years. The pressure that he’s always felt on his shoulders to do better dissipates. He would also end up here at some point, along with Jeno, Taeyong and even their damn fat cat. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let go for a bit, to not try so hard.

  
The plot where Jeno’s dad is buried at is fresh, under a tree that gives them welcome shade from the sun. Jeno doesn’t bow, so Jaemin doesn’t either but when he reaches for his hand, Jaemin lets him take it. His fingers are cold and shake a bit.

  
  


“I never came to visit,” Jeno blurts out. Jaemin’s heart clenches, and he tightens his hold on him. “I mean, he was never the most supportive parent, but he raised me. And I never visited.”

  
  


Jaemin tries to keep his voice low and soothing, even though all he wants to is take him in his arms. “It’s not your fault,” he says. “You did what you thought was right for you, Jeno. I don’t think any parent should hold that against their kid.”

  
  


Jeno nods, his Adam’s Apple bobbing. “I guess it doesn’t matter now that he’s gone. But Jaemin, I feel like there’s always going to be a part of me that’s stuck here. And you deserve someone who can move forward with you, someone who can match your pace—,”

  
  


“Jeno—,”

  
  


“No, listen!” he hisses, adamant. “There are things that are hard for me to put into words, things that you deserve to know. And I don’t want you to think I’m pushing you away.”

  
  


Jaemin’s heart sinks, remembering their conversation from before. He’s regretted the words since, wishing he could take them back, somehow turn back time.

  
  


“Stop,” he says, grabbing Jeno’s other hand so he can turn him around, look him in the eye. The bag he’s holding thumps to the grassy ground. “I was an idiot for saying that. We’re together, yeah, but of course there’s going to be things that are hard for you to talk about. I’m not going to make you tell me, okay?”

  
  


Jeno’s eyes search his own, as if looking for a sign that he’s lying. Jaemin knows he won’t find it.

  
  


“What I am going to do is be here until you feel like you can. I’ve already let you go so many times. I’m not going to make the same mistake again.”

  
“What if I can never do it?” Jeno asks. He sounds scared. Jaemin never wants to hear him sound like that because of something he did again.

  
  


“I don’t care,” Jaemin says, and it feels good to admit it. “Remember what you told me last year? You’re not getting rid of me, Lee Jeno. I would have thought all these years would have taught you that.”

  
  


Jeno’s eyes drift away from his. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbles.

  
  


“Then don’t say anything,” Jaemin cuts in. “Just be with me.”

  
  


After a moment of hesitation where Jaemin thinks his heart might just give out, Jeno nods. He almost sags with relief, only stays standing because they’re holding onto each other. 

  
  


“Wait,” Jeno says, and he panics for a split second when he lets go, but it’s only to get the rice wine he’d bought out of the bag. He hands it to Jaemin, who hesitates before pouring some of it over the grave. When Jeno takes the bottle from him, his hands are still shaky but his gaze is resolute.

  
  


Jeno turns the bottle over, watching the liquid trickle out, soaking into the earth. Once it’s been emptied, he lets it drop to the ground. It feels like a promise of both an end and a beginning; Jaemin wonders if there’s any difference between the two.

  
When Jeno takes his hand again, he thinks he doesn’t care after all.

  
  


fin

  
  


**Author's Note:**

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